Back to Life, desongfic'd version
by Ecco scribbles
Summary: Angsty, cutting Harry. "Back to Life" (by me) that lacks the songs. PG-13/Rish for the skittish.


Disclaimer:  The wonderful J.K.R. created Harry Potter and his angsty world.  She owns it; I do not.  The songs belong to their respective owners.

Claimer:  Insanity for making this one-shot songfic into more.  Damn Muses.

Rating:  PG-13/Rish for the skittish.

Warnings:  READ.  Cutting, suicidal thoughts.  Manipulative!Dumbledore, ComfortingifCynic!Snape, MEAN!Gryffindors, Normal!Slytherins, Scared!Hufflepuffs, Analytical!Ravenclaws.  If any of that bothers you, read no further.  Harry's becoming a bit…insane (swear I didn't mean to, it just happened).

AN:  This is the de-songfic'ed version of "Back to Life" also on ff.net.  Enough people wanted me to continue without the songs, and so I've made a bit easier to read version.  No songs to skip over!  (And to be honest, in other people's songfics, I generally skip over the song too…)  

**Ch.**** 1:  Love Me Back to Life, Bon Jovi**

They think I'm meant to save their world.

The wizarding world.  A world that I never knew about until I was eleven.  A little kid, meant to save an entire world.  They thought I was the Heir of Slytherin in my second year.  Their "savior" wasn't good enough then.  Not after they knew that I was a Parselmouth.  In fourth, they thought that it was my fault that Cedric died…that I was making it up. 

Rita Skeeter, always trying to make some big deal out of me.  I'm just a kid.  Not meant to do anything great and fantastic at my age—they don't expect anything else from anyone else.  But when I mess up…when people die…  
  
They blame me.  I know they do.  I've been told…so many times…how worthless I am…what a freak I am…It makes me want to give into whatever they say I am…become what they think I am already.

I watch a thin line of blood appear.  A hiss.  It's not deep…not extremely painful.

Yet.

Another one, just beside the first, to the right of it.  Right at the wrist…right where the vein is…not deep enough.

Another breath, sharply taken in.  
  


It makes me feel better.  The pain.  The blood.  Letting all my fears…my insecurities…THEIR pain…out. 

The blade is my lover now…the only one that cares.  Keeps me here.  

It makes me feel something…something…

I no longer feel pain.  Only if the blade sinks itself into my flesh.  Only if it cuts so that blood comes from the wound.  Only if I scratch the scabs till they bleed again.

I'm the Boy Who Lived.  Too Long.  But they don't add that second part…aloud.  They don't understand…or even see…'Harry'.  They see…something else…

  
Someone else.  At Hogwarts…and the rest of the wizarding world, I'm the 'Boy Who Lived'.  To my 'family', I'm a freak.

To me…I'm 'Harry.'

And sometimes I wonder even about that.

When the blade first sang to me…I wasn't sure if I could through with it.  If I could actually pierce my skin with a sharp metal.  Let the blood come.  
  
Then it glistened.  I gave in.

No one knows.__

I've tried to stop.  Really.  It just hasn't worked…won't work.  I crave it now.   
  


It keeps me alive.

If I ever had to stop…if anyone found out and made me stop…I couldn't handle that.  No.  I wouldn't let them.

The blade caresses my skin…a wanton lover.  Another hiss, another line.

A deeper cut.  I close my eyes, relishing it.  Relishing the pain that it brings, they only thing that gives me any feeling at all.  

I cradle the blade in my hands.  I'm done for tonight.  A concealing charm hides the newest scars.  Collected over time…old ones have faded.  Blended now.   
  
  


**Ch.**** 2:****   Hook Me Up, Bon Jovi**

I cut too deep.  

I can feel the blood, trickling out.  I've clamped my hand on it, but the blood seems to find its way between the cracks of my fingers.  

A gasp, the pain, it's starting to fade.  

I get dizzy, then slump even further.  I feel the lines from the tiles—I must be in the bathroom.  A faint dripping noise, someone's left the faucet on.  

The pain comes roaring back.  Angry and unhappy that it gave me even a moment's respite.  

I live for the pain—it's the only thing that makes me feel.

But I didn't really want to die—not really…ok, maybe a little…but not like this.

I always thought that I'd die at Voldemort's hand.

Or a Death Eater's.

I hear footsteps, try to call out—

The words are stuck, they come out a whisper.

For months, years even, I've wanted to die.  To let it just end.  The pain, the nightmares.  

I cut too deep.  The pain's more than what I like; drilling itself into my skin, spreading throughout my body.  All from one little cut.  

I only meant it to be a small one, just at the corner of my wrist.

The blade slipped.

I call out again.  

The blood answers me.  
  
I wonder if they'll find me.

If they'll even care if I'm gone

More footsteps.  

Please.

Another whisper.  It sings, gleaming. 

A voice!  

A muttered "Potter, where are you?"

I vaguely recognize it; after all, I've heard it for seven years now.  

But do you care?

The blood…I feel drained.

Will the wizarding world mourn me?

Or give me peace?

Or stop my veins from giving up so willingly?  

Do I want you to find me?

I can't think.  

Cold, so cold.

More footsteps, closer now.  A steady pace.  

Voldemort's not going to kill me.  

I always did wonder what would happen once he was gone.  
  
Another gasp.  

Murmurs.  
  


Someone always was around to save me then.

To save me when the wizarding world needed me.

But now—

I can feel myself just wanted to fade…close my eyes—

My vision seems to have failed me.

I'm not sure…I try to speak, but no words come out.  

I here footsteps…walking…_  
_  
They go past the bathroom.

**Ch.**** 3:  Fortress, Sister Hazel**

Cold.

Antiseptic smell—

I know it from anywhere.

Damn it.

Hospital wing.

I try to move, see what they've done.

I'm in a full body bind.  I suppose I'm probably not supposed to even be aware of anything—least till they bring the St. Mungo's doctors, who will put me in their psych ward.  

The loony bin.

I thought that last night that I had finally done it.

Finally finished Voldemort's plan, Pettigrew's mistake, Malfoy's blundering.  The war's casualty list has stayed the same.  

In body count.

I know—and they do too, if they dared to think about it—that it's the death and destruction and blood and terror of the past years.

Or maybe I'm just a freak, like my 'family' has always said.

Or maybe I'm just—

Tired.  So tired.

Of it all.  Cedric. My parents.  Voldemort.  Pettigrew.  Malfoy.  Snape.  Dumbledore.  Hermione.  Ron.  Every single damned Hogwarts student, for that matter, the whole wizarding world. 

Why can't they just leave me be?  Leave me alone.  

Why couldn't they just let me…finish my slip?

I try to finger my scars.

They help me to relax.

Feel—slightly—better.

The bind is starting to weaken.

I wonder what will happen when one of them realizes I'm awake.

I wonder what they see when they look at me.

A hero?  
  
A boy?

Suicidal man, on the verge of going over the brink?

No.  They see the Boy-Who-Lived.

Not me.

Not Harry._  
_  
Ah—the bind's starting to give way.

My fingers stretch, I wince.  I finger the scars.

They're smooth, smoother than they ever been.

I want to make another…

Just one little line.

Yes…right there.  

Sigh.  
  
They've noticed I'm awake.

I pretend to fall asleep again.

When will the St. Mungo's people come? 

I can only hear a murmur of voices, barely rising, talking in hushed low tones.

I try to recognize the voices.

Madame Pomphrey.  Dumbledore.  Snape.

I can't decipher the rest.

Damn them.   

They're going to send me away.

Someone's arguing that I would be better off to remain here.

I can almost move my arm.

They've left a knife on the table beside me—someone absent-minded, forgetful…or helpful perhaps?  No; no one here.

I reach for it, longing for just one more line, one more smooth ridge.  _  
  
  
_

**Ch.**** 4:  Holier Than Thou, Metallica**

Damn them!

DAMN him!  

Only wanted one more little cut, just there.

No harm.

I had fingered the blade, just touching the sharp edge—not pressing down.  Yet.

And then, almost had it in position, I closed my eyes.  

Swiped the blade—and opened my eyes when I felt his hands on me.

Damn him.

He wants to talk about my feelings.

How the "world" would "miss" me.

Doesn't he know that I don't really want to die?

That it's a release.

And then he had the gall to forbid me from doing it ever again.

And no flying.  I wasn't to be in a room by myself—I couldn't even shower or dress by myself.  Any potion ingredients that needed cutting would already be done for me.  My food would be cut for me.

He says when he can trust me again, I'll be allowed to be by myself for some periods of time.

What right does he have?  
   
Always interfering.  Always saying, you must do this, you must do that.  Putting the burdens of saving of a world on a baby's shoulders.

Foolish.  And now you want to talk.    
  
I ignore you.  Turn my head to the other side.  

You prattle on about nothing.  

Tell me how everyone hopes that I'll get better.  That you'll help me.  That all my professors will help me.

That the scars will heal.

That I won't want to cut again.

Ask me again, what was wrong.  What drove me to want to kill myself.

I didn't want to kill myself, but I don't tell you that.  No, you just want to continue on, talking, talking, talking.  

The twinkle in your eye still there.    
  
Seeing that I'm not about to answer you, you talk about sending me St. Mungo's.

But what's one boy?

But when that boy is the damned Boy-Who-Lived, well, that's when you care.

I wonder if you would care as much if I were in Slytherin.

If I didn't have this scar on my forehead.

You think that you know me.

You see me as The Hero.  The Savior.  The Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort.

But you don't know me at all.  

Only one of you even has a vague understanding of the Real Boy-Who-Lived.

Who absolutely despises that name.

It's Harry.  

Plain and simple.  
  
But it doesn't matter to you who I am.  No, as long as your world is safe, as long as you are the Headmaster and seen as the person that guided the Boy-Who-Lived.

You can't understand why I long for that blade again.  

Why I'd like to pull my wand out and hex and curse you.

You think that a few weeks or so of you prattling on to me about how much the world needs me, how much I'm loved, how much I've done, will make me not want to kill myself.  Not want to cut.  
  
You never really did understand me, did you?  You still see that pathetic eleven year old, wanting to do his best to please and get praise, because that's the only time he ever got it.  That I still want to be that little boy.

**Ch.**** 5:  Jumper, Third Eye Blind**

I won't attempt to say that you are my friend.

We know the truth—you dislike me as much as I dislike you.

I for believing that you are a spoiled little boy; you for my actions based on that belief.

To see you with those scars…to see you with your badges of hurt.

It's difficult for the world to differentiate the Boy-Who-Lived, from Harry Potter.  It's difficult for me to differentiate James, from Harry.

It's not an excuse.

But it's a fact.

I wish that you could have spoken to me.  

Could have come to me, like my Slytherins.

Perhaps if you had been in my House you would have.  

They almost always do find their way to me.

You've been lied to more than most.

You've been hurt and subjected to more pain than what a boy should be.

Albus means no harm, even with his thoughts of sending you to St. Mungo's.

Perhaps it would be best.

I am the only one of the professors to know the difference between cutting and suicide.

Yes, perhaps it was an attempt.  But with the amount of scarring that we found…

Perhaps we should have noticed the signs.  I should have recognized them.  

The Gryffindors have always gone to their Head of House.  Perhaps that is why McGonnagal thinks you have something that needs to be dealt with at St. Mungo's.

I should have known…when you stopped being so defiant in class.

I thought it might have been a sign of growing up.

You've grown in years more than age.

You know of my time as a Death Eater, even if only slightly.

You know that I do understand.

Perhaps you meant to slip.

Perhaps not.  

Whatever the circumstance, you should have had someone to come to.

Albus won't allow you to be by yourself, restricts your solitude completely.

I watch as your chest rises and falls, but I know that you aren't asleep.

I know that you are only waiting for a chance.

Perhaps you only want another cut.  

It becomes addictive.

Weasley and Granger were totally shocked and appalled.  Granger had to be sedated.

Weasley ran out once he saw the bandages at your wrist.

The rest of Gryffindor is in chaos.

The Wizarding World isn't aware of your "attempt" yet—but soon, they will be.  One of the other children will spread the news.

I wonder what you dream of.

Is it Voldemort and the last battle?

Is it that Diggory boy?

Your parents?

Weaning you from the blade would have been much simpler.  

Perhaps then you would deem to talk to us.

All attempts have been cast off.

Nothing seems to penetrate the wall you've erected—it's as if we do not exist to you.

St. Mungo's would do nothing for you.

It would only send you deeper into whatever hell you already feel.

I've debated with myself, how to get through to you.  

You would not believe me to be "nice."  Nor can I be sarcastic and cruel—though that could possibly get you to speak, if only curses.

But I must try.

"Potter."

**Ch.**** 6:  Talk to Me**

He's finally stopped talking to me.

Now he just watches.

Waits for me to talk to him.

Yeah, right.  No way.  Not happening.  

I'd sooner have a six course meal with Voldemort, with me scheduled for dessert.

He leaves the room, and I hope that he doesn't notice he's not taken my fork away.  A fork is kind of crass, and a bit messier, but it'd do.  

No such luck.  He returns before I can get out of this damn bed, with Snape.  

"Potter."  

Snape.  If anyone could understand…

"Potter, though I'd rather not have you…gracing me…with your attention, look at me when I'm speaking to you."

Sod off.

"Potter."

What's he going to do, give me detention?  

I almost laugh at the thought.

And then do so.  

I think I've worried them even more, oh dear.  Poor little wizards, their savior's lost his mind.

They exchange glances that they don't think I notice.

"Potter."

Damn it, my name is Harry.

"Harry, yes."  I suppose I said my name aloud.  Hadn't meant to.  

Oh well.  Snape-baiting or ignoring him.

It's difficult to choose.

"Harry."  My name sounds garbled, as if he's having difficulty actually saying my given name.

A giggle.

Boy-Who-Lived(too much) Giggles Insanely While They Lock Him in St. Mungo's, story, page six.

Another.

"Talk to me."  

Talk, talk, talk.  

Why do they always want to talk?

Always words, words, words.  Weary words.

I want my blade.

They took it away from me.  

That one was special.  

It was the first one I used.  I miss it. 

"Potter."  Ah, he's frustrated, resorting to calling me by my father's name.  

"What are you yammering about?"  

He's surprised.  I've turned to face him; his eyebrows raised, kind of quirked in a weird fashion.  Other than that, you can barely tell that the man has any facial expressions.  Good glare though.

"Why did you cut yourself?"

Ah.  He might understand more than I gave him credit for—after all, he already understands more than Dumbledore.

I look at him.

The silence stretches, becomes an almost tangible entity.  

"It slipped."  I decided to answer him.  The only way I'd get out of this bed was for them to trust me not to hurt myself.  It had been three weeks since Dumbledore's first attempt to talk to me.  

He inclines his head, understanding, even if only a little.

"Why didn't you come to someone?"

"Who'd I have gone to, Snape?"  Dumbledore?  Hah.  McGonnagal, not bloody likely.  Him?  Again, hah.  Maybe Filch, but he'd probably have helped me finish it off.  Something to keep in mind.

Again, he nods, accepting my words.  Not replying with the person I could go to—he knows that there's no one.

Foolish, the lot of them.  

Even Snape, though he understands slightly.

"Dumbledore has decided that you may start classes tomorrow.  Provided that you are never left alone."  

I shrug.  It'd be nice to get out of bed, but, classes.  I'm not Hermione. 

He's gone quiet.

I wonder if he knows where my blade is.

"Your Potions ingredients will be pre-cut for you.  Professor Dumbledore insisted on that."

Good, less work for me.

But perhaps I could borrow my partner's…

"You'll be working by yourself, at the bench directly in front of me."  

They always ruin it.  

"Your other professors will have other plans for you."

Don't they always?

"Potter.  Are you listening?"  

My ears weren't damaged.  

"Harry?"  I never expected for Snape to sound so…concerned.  Rather frightening.

"Yes?"  

"Do you wish to return to classes?"  

I laugh.  Return to classes…return to the stares, the whispers…

"I want my blade."  

It was beautiful.  Silver-handled, with an intricate design.  I kept it sharp—dulled blades don't make the fine lines that I like best, but they'll do when they must.

"I'm afraid that you won't be allowed it back for quite awhile."  

"It's mine."

"It will be kept for you."  

"You don't know how to take care of it."  A tear?  I wipe it away angrily.  I want my blade, it's mine, they can't have it.  They've taken so much from me; it's only a little thing; it's mine.

My only friend; MY savior.  

I want it back.

**Ch.**** 7:  The Unforgiven, Metallica**

His first class didn't go as I had expected.

Instead of the Gryffindors surrounding their fallen savior, they shunned him.

Apparently he was a 'selfish git' that 'should have done the job right.'

Even I hesitate at this.

Yes, I don't mind him being taken down a notch or two—when he's in full possession of his mental faculties.

But when he's so obviously…distraught…it's strange to seem him sitting there, by himself, his cauldron in front of him.

Yes, he's to work by himself.  

I keep my eye on him, even more so than usual.

When something was tossed into his cauldron—by a Gryffindor, no less—the whispers that had been veiled were no longer so quiet.  

_Freak should have done the job right.  Selfish git.  He should have finished it off.  Who found him, anyway?  Why didn't they just let the world be rid of him?  It'd be better off._

He just stirred faster, gripping the handle to death.  Obviously trying to ignore them.  A freezing spell kept the contents from exploding in his face, so now there was a conglomerate of boil removing potion hanging in the air.  

He ignored that too, just kept stirring the remainder in his cauldron.

I wonder if they even realize what really happened.  

If they realized the pain—the guilt—that he still feels from so many deaths.

That he feels the Cruciatus when it's cast.

That his family life is far from the hero-worship we all thought it.  
  
Though I understand some of what he's going through—my Slytherins aren't so different—I can't imagine the pain he's feeling from their rejection.

I wonder if this will affect him even more…

If he'll draw into himself…

If he'll try to cut again—there are ways.

Hopefully he hasn't discovered them yet.  
  
How the Gryffindors so quickly forget their hero.

I wonder if they've even glimpsed the real Harry.  
  
I know that I haven't.

But for them to do this to him…to utterly reject him—

They are no different than their parents though.

No different than their own Headmaster.  
  
It's to be expected.

He did do as they expected him to do—kill Voldemort.

They didn't expect him to close off, to cut himself, to attempt to take his own life.

And it would have been no different if he hadn't reacted that way.

If he was the claimed hero, and lived to that, they would begin to resent him.

They would ask more and more of him until he finally collapsed.

His collapse came earlier than expected—

Yet not to all of us.  

The Wizarding world, his friends, the Gryffindors, all expected too much of the boy.

It's a wonder that he didn't just disappear after that final battle.  
  
He's stirring absently, barely paying attention to the detail.

Perhaps that's a real facet of his character.  
  
 Perhaps that is what we want to see.

They all wanted to see a savior, rather than a boy.

They wanted to see the fame.

They see me as a greasy git/bastard.  

But truly, my Slytherins know differently.  
  
The class is almost over.

"Potter, see me after class."

The Gryffindors snicker.  

The Slytherins are strangely silent.

**Ch.**** 8:  I Shall Cut Off My Ears**

He sat at his bench, still.  No trace of movement.  No sign of caring.  

I sigh deeply—what was I to do with this infuriating boy?  No, I don't like him and never will.   No, I don't particularly feel sorry for him either.  

Exasperation, yes.  

Alright, so he has some sympathy.  But I wouldn't swear to it.

He's but a boy, but a boy made to be something larger than himself.  And the little cowards don't accept that he couldn't handle it.  They think that it's his duty to fulfill…his birthright…his obligation.  

They forget that they are the same age as he.  

They tend to ignore facts that aren't to their liking.

I clear my throat.  

He doesn't move a muscle.

I wonder if he's even aware of where he is.

"Yes."  

A whisper, but—had I said it aloud?—apparently.  

"I know where I am."

And the sorrow and misery in those five words try to worm their way into me, attaching somewhere inside and leaching away.  

I dispel the thought.

"Your next class is within the hour.  Will you be…capable…of going there yourself?"  

He looked at me, considering.  

I wonder if he knew what I was suggesting.

Yes, I shouldn't be a party to it.  But he needs to…trust someone, anyone—and the ends justify the means.  I am Slytherin, after all.  

Damn Dumbledore, because it seems I've been elected.  

Damn the boy for showing no signs of even considering anyone else.

In a stronger voice, he answers me—"Yes."

I've just given him carte blanc to do as he like for almost an hour.

He surprises me though.  

He remains at his bench, just sitting, staring into space.  

I shudder to think of what he's contemplating.  My left goes to my right arm, where I trace faint past pains, echoing still.  

"Professor."  

"What is it, Potter?"  

"I—I…I don't want to go to my next class, it's McGonnagal, and with the rest of the House and I'd rather—"

"Yes…they were particularly…brutal towards you today."  

I'm nothing if not blunt.  

I consider his request.  

McGonnagal would dislike it, which is a plus.  Dumbledore may or may not approve—he's been finicky of late.  The next class was third years, Hufflepuff weaklings and Ravenclaw aspirers.  Merlin save me.

Perhaps…yes.  "Alright, Potter.  But you won't just sit there.  I need a simple healing potion, perhaps you won't botch it too badly.  Page 189, starting at the bottom of the page."  

He gets his ingredients, starts to prepare them.  Nothing needs to be cut with a knife, though some of the ingredients would send him to peace all too quickly…

He works quietly.  

The third years enter, glancing curiously at their fallen hero—the story had been spread throughout the school, growing with each telling.  

"Get to work, ten points from each House for dawdling!"  Ah, that felt good.  

Potter smirks at me, then returns to his cauldron. 

Perhaps there's hope for him yet.

**Ch.**** 9:  Wanted:  Blade**

Damn it.

Why did they have _him_ escort me to Herbology?

Didn't they know he _hated_ me!  Absolutely despised me.  

Said I was coward, that I should have been capable of doing _something right_, especially after _how_ _long it took _for me to kill Voldemort.  That I should be _grateful_ to all of them, for bringing me into their world.  

Bah.

Idiotic, moronic fool.

I smiled, just the once, when he said I was acting like a Slytherin, since they were _all cowards, anyway._

Laughed at his look of shock, and disgust, when I told him that I should have been a Slytherin, but I was conniving enough to trick the Hat into allowing me my choice.  Of course, I didn't really connive—more like pleaded…nor did I trick the Hat…but he believed me!  

After been escorted very firmly to stand by a pot of…something.  I don't want to know what it was.

And the others…my supposed friends…they all stood away from me, creating a no-man land around me.  

Good.

I didn't want them to contaminate my air anyway.

And then one of the Slytherins stuck out his foot, and I tripped, and fell face-first into that pot.

Everyone was still laughing at it at lunch.

Sigh. 

I wonder when they'll let me have my blade back.

I really do miss it.

And he knows it, and he said they would take care of it, but they don't know how!  

And I really need a cut, just there.

A small, tiny one.

No one would notice.

No one would care anyway.

Just…how…c'mon Potter, think!  They won't allow you any sharp objects, and your wand's been taken from you for the moment, given a special wand designed so that the caster could not harm themselves, no matter what they cast.

What to do…what to do?

Maybe…

It's a long shot, but—

Snape was going allow me to go about myself.  Stupid—why did I stay, making a potion of all things?

Maybe he would be…generous again.

McGonnagal still wants to put me in St. Mungo's; Pomphrey agrees.

Albus, and his damned twinkling eyes, just lets them all argue about it, never saying anything.

Snape is the only one that has stated that I would be better off at Hogwarts, that St. Mungo's would do nothing for me.

I wonder why.  

If he'll later use it all against me.

And then I think to his offer of letting me go off by myself for almost an hour—why didn't I take the chance!—and think, no.  No, he wouldn't do that.

He understands.

A little.

More than the others.

But still.  He's keeping my blade from me.

The anger wells up inside me and shatter-proof windows are now tiny, glittering pieces.

The others are worried about getting hurt and scream.

Sprout's ushering us out.

I grab a piece of glass, hide it in my pocket.

No one even notices.

Sprout sends us off to our common rooms and then goes hustling off to Dumbledore's office.

Ron grabs my arm, tightly, and I wince.  

"What, don't you like pain?"  He squeezes harder.  "Pathetic!"  

I grit my teeth.

Weasley—when did he become 'Weasley' in my mind—was trying to goad me on purpose.

And I couldn't understand why.

Even when they all thought me guilty of being the Heir of Slytherin, Weasley and Hermione had stood by my side.

But now, now he was just so angry.  

Which in turn made me quite…irate.

I tried to shove away from him.  "Leave me alone!"  

Yeah, that worked.

His nails dug into my robe, through the cloth.  

They weren't sharp enough.

His 'escort' ended the moment we were inside of the DADA classroom.

Another idiotic professor.

This one liked to talk about his 'experiences' in the field, then stare at my forehead the rest of the time.

That meant fifty minutes of scar-staring.

Ugh.

I want my blade.

I tapped my fingers against the desk. 

Didn't bother with notes.  Voldemort was dead.  He wasn't coming back.

Yeah, other dark wizards still existed.

Let someone else deal with them.

I want my blade.

Silver and gleaming and sharp.

I want my blade.

It made the best fine lines of anything I used.  Most were a lot cruder…my thighs are testament to that.  That was before I learned the…_art_.

It released all the pain and anger.  It let my world become a bit more sane.

I want my blade.

Ah, good.  He's saying it's time to go, with a final stare at my scar, we're dismissed.

Ron grabs my arm again.

"Snape said you're to see him after DADA."  

Since when did Ron listen to Snape?

Then I looked a bit more closely at his face.  He didn't want to go anywhere near the dungeons.  No where near Snape's office.

"You don't have to come with me, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"Oh, come on, Ron!  It's only a bit further away from here.  And I don't need a minder."  No…I need my blade.

He was divided, I could tell.

"Fine then.  Go on."  Well, he certainly made up his mind quickly.  

I wasn't going to debate it.  Before he could change his mind, I was gone.

Now where to go?

Snape's office?  No.

His is the only one remotely deserving of consideration.

No.

I wonder where they put my blade.

**Ch.**** 9:  Alone**

It's strange, how they were all so concerned about me being left alone.

About how they forced Weasley to 'escort' me around.

How I was never left by myself.

I cradle the glass in my hand, feel the sharp edge.  I don't press down hard enough to break the skin—no, my hands have never been cut.

That's just crass.

It beckons.

No one's searching for me.

Snape's nowhere in sight.

Good.

He'd be the one.

And Weasley.

Hah.  Ponce, that one.

Thinks I betrayed him.

They all betrayed me.

All but my blade.  Which they still have.  Makes me—

A hiss.  That wasn't the most brilliant thing I've done.  A jagged line on my thumb.

I watch it bleed for a moment.

Then whisper a healing spell—don't want that line on me.

Not there.

No.  I want one…just…here…

High enough so that my sleeves cover it.

Low enough that I can touch it when I want.

Just one.

A breath in.  

That felt…so good.  Maybe just…yes.

Another one, just one more.

Yes.

I watch the blood well up.

Set the glass aside.  Breathe the pain in.  So much better.

I'll keep the glass for later, till I get my blade back.

The lines are a bit more jagged than what I like.  The flesh torn a bit more.

Ah well.

I'll find my blade.

Perhaps convince them that I'm "all better."  That I don't need St. Mungo's.

Honestly, St.  Mungo's?  For the Boy-Who-Lived(-Who-Wouldn't-Die)?

Hah.  Who says I'm not just fine the way I am?

Bloody hypocrites.

But yes.

An act.

I wonder if I could pull it off.

Must plan.  I can't let them see my newest adornment.  No, that would never do.

The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin for a reason.

Let the game begin.  

**Ch.**** 10:  Breaking the Habit, Linkin** **Park**

He's there again, always whispering.  Saying that it was my fault, all my fault, that my parents were dead…that Cedric was dead…that Snape was tortured.

All my fault.

I argue with him.

No, it's not my fault, it's not.

Merlin, I wish I had my blade.  It could always stop the voice.

He's going on about.  

On and on and on.  I try closing my eyes, but the voice still lingers.

I try to think of other things.  

The others found me, but they didn't see my newest scar.

They didn't even look.

Hermione tried to talk with me.

Tried to say that she "understood" and that she still wanted to be my friend.

I told her to kindly sod off.

She had the strangest look on her face.

Full of hurt…and pity?

Sympathy even.

I wish I could have talked to her.

But she doesn't understand.

I almost called her back to apologize, but then remembered the plan.

I couldn't just become miraculously "better."

No.  

It might work on most of them, but Snape would suspect.

I feel for the glass still in my pocket.

It's still there.

I breathe a sigh of relief, with that one.

The others look at me strangely, but don't say anything.

He's whispering again.

Saying it's all my fault.

Murderer.

MURDERER!

But I'm not, no, I'm not.

Damn, I wish I had my blade.

But I have to resist the urge to even just use the glass again.

I've got to put the plan in action.

Got to act…'normal.'

I smile at the others.

The voice, again.

Liar, liar.  Murderer.

I look down; see the blood on my hands.

The glass is still in my pocket; no one's said anything to me.  

Invisible.

Lying murderer, that's what you are.

No one's looking.

I slam my fist into the mirror and the voice quiets.

AN:  Some have questioned.  No, not a cutter myself.  I had a friend that almost died with it and we've talked extensively.  No, he never really told me why he cut; never told me how it helped.  That portion is my own imagination.  Never read a book with cutting.  Watched a movie once; I believe I was about 13 or so when I did.  That's several years in the past.  Yes, suicidal thoughts have held their place in my mind at one point.  No, never went through with any of it.  

        See Ch. 8 of the songfic version of Back to Life for my reasons on mean Gryffindors if you object.

        And of course I'll continue updating!  

        This fic is unbeta'd.  And to be perfectly honest, not spellchecked.  Well, except for one word that I mistyped in the other version.  If problems are glaringly obvious, and you're really distraught over it, I may change it.  If you hate the fic because it's cutting or contains suicidal thoughts…where were you when you read the warning?

       What follows are questions for upcoming chapters.  If you don't want to know my thoughts on future chapters and wish to be surprised, scroll past.  After that are future topics that have been mapped out/partially written.  No worries, I've left plenty of space, I feel, if you don't want to read it, to scroll past and review grins.  

       I think this is one of the longest AN's I've done, except for ch. 8, so I think I'll shush now.

       Happy reading!

Q

U

E

S

T

I

O

N

S

F

O

R

F

U

T

U

R

E

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

S

K, for those who want to know or who want to help.

Should Harry live or die?

Should he find "someone to live for"?  Who? (If you want this, I need the person's name.)

Should he still die even if he does?

AN:  What follows are spoilers for future chapters that I have planned/mapped out.  Scroll past if you don't wish to read.

S

P

O

I

L

E

R

S

F

O

R

F

U

T

U

R

E

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

S

That should be enough.  

Future chapters:

Snape reveals he used to be a cutter.

Harry's plan works quite well, except with, come on, you should all know, Snape!

He receives his knife back.  What he does with it depends on what I decide from the questions above.

Happy reading!

Have I mentioned how much I love reviews?  Thank you to all the reviewers of the songfic version.  


End file.
